Fix You
by Wallflowergirl
Summary: He just wanted a break. Maybe he should have taken the Impala... Trapped!Sam, Angry!/Worried!Dean, brotherly love.
1. Chapter 1

Work has been crazy and I felt the need for some Supernatural excitement - just some self-indulgence! I made a mental list of all the things I like in a SPN fanfic and tried to incorporate as many of them as possible...

Rated T just to be on the safe side but could probably be K+.

The title of this fic is taken from the Coldplay song of the same name, off their album X & Y.

_**Disclaimer**_: Don't own them *sniff*... (oh, and I don't own Coldplay or its lyrics either!)

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_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Stop it with the remote. I'm trying to work here."

"I'm watching TV."

"No, you're channel surfing. I can't concentrate. Just pick a channel, will you?"

_Click._

_Click._

"Dean!"

"What?"

"You know what!"

"Deal with it, geek boy."

_Click._

_Thud._

"Ow! Sam!"

"Stop it!"

"Okaaaay.... Ah. This'll do."

"Dean – switch channels!"

"You blushing, Sammy? This is very educational –"

"Deeaan..."

_Click._

_Click._

"Fine. I'm going out."

"Double cheese burger with extra onions, and a pie. And you might as well get some beers while you're there."

"I wasn't-"

"Well, we need to eat. It's dinnertime. And face it, Sammy, where else would you go in this thriving metropolis?"

"_Thriving metropolis?_"

"Just shut up and get the food."

"Whatever. And it's _Sam_."

"Okay, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

****************************************************

It was cold. The sky was a pewter expanse, heavy with a threat of snow. Sam thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket, beginning to rue the impulse which had seen him turn his back on the Impala.

But he'd sat for too long, hours and days of driving in search of the next hunt and evenings cooped up in motel rooms doing research on the laptop. He was beginning to think he'd lose the use of his legs.

The ground squelched wetly underfoot, and he eyed his muddying boots with mild distaste. It had been raining for most of the day, the sort of chill wetness that was just yearning to turn into sleet, and pools of water lay waiting to trap the unwary. Sam peered at the sky and increased his pace a little.

_If it rains before I get back, I'll... _

_Well, not sure what I'll do. But it won't be pretty._

_Especially since this is my last clean pair of jeans._

_Sort-of clean._

Sam had a momentary ridiculous mental image of himself on a hunt clad only in a pair of boxers.

_Dean would never let me forget that._

He grinned to himself, imagining Dean's reaction.

'_You'll scare away the monsters, Sasquatch!'_

An icy little wind caressed his neck and he hunched his shoulders into the collar of his jacket.

_Shoulda brought the Impala._

Despite the cold, though, there was a certain beauty about his surroundings. The trees were naked, gaunt black skeletons against the metallic sky. It was too early for the green which indicated the approach of spring. Some might have found it too stark, almost frightening, but Sam had seen too much that was truly fearsome to be thus impressed.

The road was quiet. The occasional truck passed him, ignoring him as he ignored it, pedestrian and driver both too occupied in their own purposes to pay attention to the other. He was enjoying being alone. Alone in a good way. Able to think his own thoughts, happy, sad, whatever came into his head. That was why he'd left the Impala: because to drive would mean a quick trip, in, out, get the food, get back to the motel, and sometimes solitude, even cold solitude, was what he needed.

Not that he didn't appreciate Dean's company. He'd rather be with Dean than with anyone else. But Dean's way of working through things was to drink, sometimes until he was drunk, and have a good time with a pretty girl. Sam liked to talk. And if there was no-one to talk to, he would talk to himself. Not in a crazy psycho way. Just sorting through his thoughts, filing them neatly until he was ready to move on. Dean... Dean didn't like talking. Sam's mouth twisted in a rueful, half-amused grin as he thought of the deer-in-the-headlights look that came over his older brother's face whenever Sam began what Dean termed a "sharing and caring" moment.

From up ahead, over the blind rise, he could hear the roar of an engine that was unlike any truck he'd ever heard. Dean would have been able to identify it. Sam just knew it was moving fast. A sports car, maybe. Something fancy. That was unusual out here in the boonies, where most of the vehicles were built for durability and efficacy in transporting cows and sheep.

All too abruptly, it appeared on the crest of the hill.

It was Sam's turn for the spotlighted deer expression, as he realised two things at once: it was on the wrong side of the road – _his_ side – and it was going far too fast for him to get away.

Sam had been a connoisseur of the unexpected for too long to have slow reflexes. He was already hurling himself sideways as the scarlet convertible bore down on him. Even as he moved he knew it wasn't enough, that the car would hit him, catch some long lanky part of him that was still in the way. He was flying, catapulting through the air, then crashing and bumping and rolling through damp squelchy wetness that he couldn't identify as his head and limbs and torso were all over the place and the sky and the ground and the air blurred and spun and merged into one crazy confusion.

**************************************************

It was cold.

It was wet.

It was quiet.

Sam lay motionless. His eyes blinked cautiously, the only part of his stunned body that he dared move. It had happened too fast for him to feel anything in particular. He had no doubt that he was seriously damaged in some way.

There was, surprisingly, no pain.

That was the shock, of course.

He was actually kinda comfortable.

Okay, not comfortable. It was too cold for that. And wet. But he was surprised that his injuries weren't already making themselves known. As soon as he moved...

_Come on, Samantha, stop being such a girl._

_Head injury, then – I'm channelling Dean. _

_Not that he isn't right. _

Sam gritted his teeth heroically, and lifted his head.

He was not greeted with mental screams from his maltreated body, and encouraged, he gingerly sat up.

There was a twinge of pain from the region of his right hip.

_Oh yeah... something crunched when I landed. _

_I think I broke something!_

_Oh. Ah. _

_My cell phone._

He eyed the mangled remains with regret.

He had to conclude that there was not much else wrong. Various twinges made themselves known as he completed his mental inventory, but they seemed to be nothing more than bruises.

He was, of course, now thoroughly wet.

_I landed right in a puddle. Guess I might just be hunting that Wendigo in my boxers after all..._

He was not going into town like this. If Dean wanted food, he'd have to get it himself. Sam wanted a shower.

A hot one.

Followed by clean clothes.

Or non-wet clothes, at any rate.

He looked around, for the first time taking stock of his surroundings, and discovered that he had landed in what appeared to be a ditch. It was deep: sitting up he could not see over the edge, and the rain which had fallen had created a little lake in the bottom of it. Leaves and twigs and grasses tangled sullenly, creating a kind of rotting soup.

It did not smell good.

_Dean is so doing the laundry next time._

Sam shivered, not appreciating the chill wetness against his skin. It was time to make a bid for freedom. It was not going to be fun walking all the way back to the motel wearing wet clothes in this icy wind, but sitting here like a newly-bedded rose bush, complete with mulch, was even worse.

He half-rose, lurched sideways, and fell hard, back into the water. It hurt, this time, although still not bad enough to suggest anything was actually injured. _What the hell..._

The yank on his ankle gave it away.

Somehow, without actually hurting it, he'd managed to get his foot trapped. He couldn't clearly see what was holding him prisoner, but whatever it was, it was not going to let him go easily. He tugged, cautiously at first, and then with increasing force, but without success.

His ankle was beginning to protest the rough treatment.

Sam flopped back with a fervent and unrepeatable exclamation. He was trapped, in a cold, wet ditch, and it would be at least ten minutes before Dean could get there. He did not relish the idea of sitting in a puddle in this cold weather, waiting for his brother, who would undoubtedly have many uncomplimentary things to say. He yanked his leg again, but gave up hurriedly with a cry of compounded pain and frustration.

He was going to _have_ to call Dean.

And suffer the humiliation for the rest of his life.

Sam reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

Cell phone.

Sam repeated his earlier exclamation, with a few embellishments. His cell phone was broken. He couldn't call Dean.

_I'm stuck, in an icy wet ditch in the middle of nowhere. Dean doesn't know. Nobody knows. Dean doesn't expect me home for at least an hour. _

_Okay, this is so not good._

Sam knew the workings of his brother's mind well enough to be aware that Dean would eventually come looking for him. After a sufficiently worrying time had elapsed, Dean would mumble and swear and get into the Impala and find him. He wasn't going to starve to death and die here, and be found years later.

_It's not the __**years**__ I'm worried about. I don't want to spend the next two __**hours**__ here until Dean finds me. It's freakin' cold in this stupid ditch. _

He gave another experimental tug on the captive ankle, but gave up in disgust. There was no point in breaking the thing. Then he'd be royally screwed.

_Okay, Dean. Now would be a good time to be a mother hen. Get worried Dean... get worried now. _

_It would be so convenient if Dean and I could communicate telepathically...._

_Ha__**. That**__ isn't going to happen any time soon. We can't even communicate the standard way half the time._

Sam wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to fight off the shivers. It was surprising how much more he felt the cold now that he wasn't walking. Of course, the wet didn't help. His jeans were sodden, and the hem of his jacket. The cold was inexorable, slowly working its way inside him.

_At least it isn't raining._

_Oh._

_Well, this isn't rain._

_Snow won't wet me as fast._

_I think._

He bent his head down, burying his chin in his chest and drawing his untrapped leg up in an attempt to conserve warmth. It wasn't very effective, the main result being that his shirt began to absorb the moisture from his jeans.

"Help! Somebody! Help me! Anybody? Hello?!"

It was as if the sports car had wiped all other traffic off the road. The silence which had been pleasant half an hour earlier was now menacing, ominous. No-one was around. No-one would hear him. He could shout himself hoarse, but until Dean realised he'd been gone too long, he was doomed to sit in this unpleasant little trench.

For the first time a chill that had nothing to do with the weather slithered through him.

It was cold. It was _freakin'_ cold. Already his fingers were growing numb. He was shivering uncontrollably now, his teeth chattering violently. The wet fabric which encased his lower body was an almost physical pain.

The soft white flakes of snow drifted gently down around him, masking the ugliness of the ditch and adding to the beauty of the landscape, and he hated every one of them.

***************************************

Dean shifted and settling his back more comfortably against the headboard. Eyes at half-mast, he stared at the flickering television, not really taking in what he was watching.

It was pleasant to be sitting. Just sitting, without having to watch the road. He adored his car and was more than happy to spend hours in her, but sometimes it was nice to be stationary. Not to have to concentrate, to switch his mind off and just vegetate.

_Vegetate?_

_I'm turning into Sam here._

His stomach gurgled loudly, and he patted it comfortingly. Those pancakes seemed an age ago. Sam needed to hurry up with dinner.

_Or he'll get back and find that my body's eaten itself from the inside out._

He glanced at his watch.

_He's been gone almost an hour. Should be home pretty soon. _

He slid down a little further, enjoying the rarity of a comfortable motel bed. The television mumbled gently, the images blurring into a soporific haze.

_I could so fall asleep right now._

_Better not, Sam will be back with din..._

*****************************************

_Dean..._

Sam lifted his head from where it had come to rest on his knee, and peered with unfocused eyes at his wristwatch. His movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, and it took several attempts before he comprehended what time it was.

'_Kay. Night-time's comin'._

_Cold. _

_How long since I fell in here?_

He tried to calculate, but his mind was slowing along with his muscles.

_Too long. _

_Gettin' hypo... hypo... _

_Um... too cold._

He was still shivering, but not as violently, and the part of him that was still aware knew that that was a bad sign. He wasn't feeling as cold as he had been, which, paradoxically, meant that he was getting colder.

_Dean... y' need to come... find me._

How much longer would it be before Dean realised something was wrong? Sam couldn't figure out how long he'd been gone from the motel, but the gathering darkness suggested it had been a while. Dean would start worrying soon.

He _had_ to start worrying soon.

"Hell..."

_Not what... I meant to... shout._

_Works too... though..._

He clenched his teeth, trying to curb the chattering, and clumsily thrust his hands inside his jacket. Even in the dim light he could see that they were unnaturally pale. His jacket was thoroughly damp now, from the snow which had fallen on him and the water which had wicked up from the ground, and it didn't really help his hands much.

_Hope I don'... get frostbite..._

_Wouldn' help with... killing Wend'go... 'f I couldn' fire... gun..._

_In boxers._

_Why boxers again?_

_Know I was... gonna be 'n boxers..._

_Oh... wet jeans..._

_Dean 'ud..._

_Dean._

_Dean, please come..._

_Need ya..._

_Dean'll come... know I've been gone f'r too long..._

***************************************

Images flickered, the humdrum of evening television. Voices came and went, interspersed with music which might have been familiar had anyone been listening. Fluorescent light began to filter through threadbare motel curtains as the natural light of day bowed out and an artificial one took its place.

Soft snores indicated that the young man on the bed was unaware of it all.

********************************************

Eyes blinked open slowly. It was almost dark, the heavy clouds hastening the night. In the ditch it was even darker, and he could make out very little detail.

Something wasn't right.

It was the only coherent thought that he had, and it flitted in and out of his mind. What it was that was wrong he had no idea. His mind was functioning with the agility of a man swimming through treacle.

He really just wanted to sleep. Vaguely, dimly, something warned him that he shouldn't, but it made no sense. It was comfortable here, huddled in this... place... with the soft snow gently covering him like a blanket.

Snow...

There was that thought again.

Snow was... wrong.

He didn't know why.

_Shouldn't sleep..._

His heavy lids lifted, dropped, and lifted again.

_Wanna... sleep...._

Somehow, without really meaning to, he was lying on his side. One hand slid out of the meagre shelter of his jacket to fall with a splash into the shallow water in which he lay.

_Wrong..._

It was gone. That ephemeral thought, drifting gently, then slipping away. It was just too much effort to think. To stay awake...

Glazed blue-green eyes slid shut, and stayed shut.

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Please review! It totally makes my day!


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, thank you all for the lovely reviews - thanks especially to the anonymous reviewers who I haven't been able to thank in person! There's nothing quite as motivating as encouraging feedback!

**Disclaimer**: I dream but I'm not delusional...

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"...sculpt your waist and take inches off your thighs and backside!"

Dean jerked awake with a start, staring in sleep-fuddled amazement at the television. The perky brunette on the screen smiled widely, showing all her teeth, as she held up a pale beige item.

"Bullet-proof underwear. Fabulous." Dean scrabbled for the remote. "_Not_ the sort I like to wake up to..."

With one hand he silenced the brunette, while the other scrubbed over his eyes.

"Sam, why didn't you wake me..." his voice trailed off as he realised that his brother wasn't in the room. One glance at the darkened bathroom was enough to tell him that Sam wasn't there either.

"Can't have slept that long, then," he muttered. He sat up, stretching luxuriously. "Hope he hurries... I'm seriously in need of that burger now." His stomach growled loudly in agreement.

He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, running his hands through his spiky fair hair.

_What's keeping Sam? It must be well over an hour since he left._

He glanced idly at his wristwatch.

And froze.

_**Quarter to eleven?!**_

For a moment his mind blanked, unable to comprehend this.

_He must have gone out again. _

_He came back, brought the food, and went out... _

_Yeah, right._

_To where, exactly?_

_And – minor detail – where's the food?_

_He must be..._

_Of course, he must have..._

_Okay. Okay. Calm down, Dean._

_He obviously just..._

_Calm down, Dean._

_Call him. Call his phone._

Dean reached for his own phone and fumbled with the keypad, speed-dialling Sam's number.

"Sam Winchester. I can't take your call right now, please leave a mess -"

With a muttered and uncomplimentary remark, Dean disconnected and redialled. With the same result.

"Where are you, Sam? Call me!" Dean barked, and tossed the phone onto his bed.

_Okay, the stupid little idiot obviously got caught up in a...uh..._

_Chat with a waitress..._

_Pool game..._

_Bunch of pool players angry over being hustled..._

_Convenience store robbery..._

_Car accident..._

_Gangland-style drive-by-shooting..._

_Nest of vampires which even now are sucking -_

_CALM DOWN, DEAN!_

Dean picked up his phone and tried again, and again only got voicemail.

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

_There must be a logical explanation._

_No, there isn't. Something's wrong._

_He obviously just – _

_Just WHAT? Sam would never leave his phone off!_

_Maybe he didn't charge it and the battery ran down._

_Yeah. That explains why I saw him take it OFF the charger this morning!_

_Oh._

Dean opened his eyes, putting an end to the argument in his head.

_Angry-and-worried-as-hell_ Dean had won over _calm-down-there-must-be-a-rational-explanation_ Dean.

That Dean always did, when it came to Sam.

He caught up his phone and made for the door. He was going to find Sam, wherever he was. And when he did, he was going to beat the –

He opened the door, and stopped dead.

_Since when did it start snowing? _

The ugly motel parking lot was covered in a pretty frosting of white, which under any other circumstances he would have found attractive. The snow wasn't falling very heavily, but the sky overhead was sullen with the threat of worse to come. And it was cold. Dean shivered.

_Better get a thicker coat – who knows how long I'll be out. _

On his second exit from the room, he saw the Impala.

It was at that point that his irritated anxiety morphed into full-blown fear.

Sam hadn't taken the Impala.

Hence – Sam had walked.

Sam had _walked_.

Dean made for the car, his voice breaking the placid stillness of the rural night in a graphic and unrepeatable litany.

******************************************

Snow piled in little drifts, undisturbed by any movement or other sign of life. Soft, gentle, deadly, it caressed pale skin, jewelling on thick dark eyelashes and kissing bluing lips through which the breath moved ever more lethargically.

*******************************************

Dean liked speed. He liked the sensation of the Impala eating the miles, responding to his touch, to the pressure of his foot on the accelerator. He and his car were one, conquering the road as a finely tuned team.

Dean drove fast because he liked to drive fast; a touch of the exhibitionist and a healthy dose of the thrill-seeker, bound together by the pride in his baby that was usually seen in first-time fathers.

He was driving fast tonight.

But this was no pleasure trip. This time he wasn't revelling in the speed. This wasn't haste for its own sake, for the fun of it. This time it was emotion that sat in the driver's seat, anger and concern and a heavy dread that pressed his foot down and clenched his jaw.

Try as he might, he could not think of a logical explanation for his brother's absence.

Or a logical explanation that didn't involve danger.

He knew that if their positions were reversed, Sam would be unlikely to worry. It wasn't that Sam didn't take Dean's safety seriously. But Sam had lived with his brother for long enough to know that when Dean wasn't home by eleven, a bar, a game of pool or a girl was usually to blame. And in most cases, all three.

Dean didn't have that reassurance. It was incomprehensible to him, but the fact was inescapable that Sam didn't do the whole bar-pool-girl thing like he did. Fun for Sam was a dusty library.

And Dean's experience included no libraries that were open at eleven o'clock at night.

Dean banged his hand against the steering wheel, not even apologising to the car for the unwarranted assault.

Sam was twenty-three, alarmingly tall and well able to defend himself. He wasn't a child, to be cosseted and hovered-over. But there was still that part of Dean that thought of him as the wide-eyed, innocent, _vulnerable_ little boy he'd been. Dean's little brother.

Yes, they watched each other's backs, and yes, Sam was concerned for Dean's safety. But Dean was Sam's big brother, and that position carried a weight of self-bestowed responsibility that he'd never lose. Sam just couldn't worry about Dean in quite the same way.

The road was dark, the bright area of snow illuminated by the headlights only accentuating the blackness around it. Dean fought with the realisation that unless Sam was right in the middle of the road there was no way he would see him. Without thinking he slowed down, as if by moving more cautiously he could extend the reach of the headlights to the verges of the road. As much as he needed to find his brother, he did not want to see him in the middle of the road. He slowed down even more at the thought.

Sam wasn't in the middle of the road. Dean found himself in the tiny town, none the wiser as to where his brother might be and his anxiety increasing with each passing minute.

Most of the town was already in darkness. Dean drove past the little cafe where they had bought dinner the night before, and saw with more resignation than dismay that it was closed. He had not really expected Sam to be there still. Even the most inefficient diner in the world did not take over five hours to produce its patrons' food.

It seemed that the only place where people were still awake was the decidedly seedy-looking bar on the outskirts of town. The unpaved parking area held numerous large motorcycles of the Hell's Angel variety, as well as an assortment of dilapidated trucks. Dean had already had a fairly good idea of the nature of the clientele and these vehicles only confirmed it. He was almost certain that Sam would never have entered a place like this.

He wasn't going to assume anything, though. Sam was not always predictable. And Dean knew that this was the last place he could check where there was any hope that Sam was still alright. Sam might just be sitting in a corner of this unsavoury place, nursing a beer and some deep emo thoughts.

He parked the Impala a short distance away and made his way on foot towards the bar. Smoky air spilled from the open door, mingling with the sounds of loud tinny music and inebriated voices.

As he approached it, his attention was caught by the surprising spectacle of a Porsche Carrera. Scarlet and gleaming, the convertible looked startlingly out of place amidst the motorcycles and trucks. Dean admired it for a brief moment, and wondered fleetingly about the sort of person who would drive such a car and yet frequent out-of-the-way little bars like the one in front of him. It was more than a little incongruous, and if he had been Sam he would probably have given it some thought, but he was not Sam, and he had more important things on his mind. Dismissing it, he headed for the door.

The bar was no different from many that he'd seen over the years, and exactly what he'd predicted. It was seedy, loud and not overly clean. The men and girls who filled it were mostly at least half-drunk, and occupied with playing pool or poker. Dean was more certain than ever that Sam wouldn't be here, but he looked around anyway. Not seeing the familiar shaggy mop and lanky body, he headed for the bar.

The woman behind it was around thirty. She looked older. Dark hair with an improbably red tinge was pulled untidily back from a face which must have been pretty before it experienced more than its fair share of the ugly side of life. She smiled as Dean approached, but her eyes were cynical.

"Evening, handsome."

"Hey there." Dean's grin was charming and completely automatic. Flirting was as natural to him as breathing, an unconscious reflex action, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. "I'm looking for my brother and I was wondering if you'd seen him in here this evening? Really tall kid, longish dark hair? In jeans and a gray hoodie and jacket?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Haven't seen anyone in here that I don't recognise. Except you, of course."

"You sure?"

Something of the fear he was trying to suppress must have shown through. Her eyes softened a little.

"I'm pretty certain I would have noticed a really tall stranger. What - how did you lose him?"

Dean's hand went to the back of his neck, his eyes closing briefly.

"He went to get food. That was hours ago. I just... I'm a little... concerned."

"He didn't come back?"

"No."

"Is his car outside?"

"He wasn't driving."

She leant forward a little, one eyebrow going up.

"He wasn't driving? Where're you staying?"

"The Happy Holidays Motel."

The other eyebrow joined its partner.

"He walked from there? In this weather?"

Dean jerked his head.

"He younger or older than you?"

"Younger."

She eyed him.

"'F you ask me, you should take better care of him. I wouldn't let my kid brother walk around in weather like this." Her voice was blunt.

_I didn't ask you, lady._

Dean didn't voice his thoughts. As much as he disliked her censure, it was too close to his own feelings for him to argue with it. He _had_ done a pathetic job of looking after Sam. He should have made sure Sam took the car. He shouldn't have fallen asleep, and he certainly shouldn't have slept for hours and not noticed that his brother hadn't returned.

"Yes. Well." He spoke flatly. "You haven't seen him. Then I'll... uh..." _Do what?_ "...look somewhere else."

He managed, this time, to hide the panic that that thought sent flaring through him. Where was he going to look? Sam was in none of the obvious places, and there was no sign of him on the road. He seemed to have utterly disappeared. With no clues as to his whereabouts, Dean was stumped.

She looked at him critically, but a flicker of sympathy was in her eyes.

"Tell you what, give me your number and if I see him or somebody mentions seeing him, I can give you a call."

He nodded, and managed a smile.

"Okay, yeah, that would be great. Thanks." He scribbled his name and number on the napkin she pushed across to him.

"Okay. Dean." She glanced at the napkin. "I'll let you know 'f I hear anything."

"Another beer, sexy!" Somebody brushed past Dean, just hard enough to be deliberate, and leaned over the bar towards the woman behind it. Dean turned, instinctively adopting a defensive position, and noticed as he did so the indefinable look that crossed the bartender's face. It was gone immediately and she provided the requested drink without comment.

"So, beautiful, you busy tonight? How about you and I get to know each other a little better?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Devan. I'm working late." Her face was completely expressionless, but again that indefinable something flickered through her eyes. Irritation? Apprehension? Resignation?

Dean's eyes narrowed a little.

"Oh come on, Kendra! You can close up a little early! I promise you won't regret it!"

_Is this guy for real? I flirted better than this when I was ten!_

Dean glanced across at the man now resting his elbows on the bar. Devan was about his own age, slightly taller, and heavy, with a physique that owed its bulk more to good living than a gym membership. He was, Dean supposed, what most women would consider good-looking, although the aforementioned good living was already leaving its mark. He was slightly flushed but didn't appear to be drunk.

"Ah, I really can't. Some of us have to earn our living, you know!" The words were spoken lightly, but they clearly flicked on the raw. Devan frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged.

"Just what it sounds like. I can't afford to close early."

"Can't afford... can't afford! If you'd only let me –"

"Devan. We've discussed this. I'm not accepting money from you, or your father." She turned, her body language dismissive.

"Don't just walk away from me!" One large hand flashed out and clamped down on her arm. Kendra was not small, but he swung her to face him with no apparent effort. For a moment Dean saw a flash of something that might have been alarm in her eyes, although it vanished almost instantly. He cleared his throat.

"I believe the lady wants you to leave her alone."

The taller man jerked around. He stared at Dean, up, down, in a manner that was at once insolent and contemptuous. Obviously dismissing him as no threat, he turned back to the bartender.

"Listen, Kendra!" His hand tightened on her arm until she winced involuntarily.

"Hey! She doesn't want you bothering her." Dean's tone was not conciliatory. But he was nearing the end of what little patience he had. He could not walk away while this character bullied the woman. In a place like this, there was little chance anyone else would help her. But everything that was in him was screaming at him to leave, to continue to look for Sam. His brother could be anywhere, and Dean had no ideas left. Possibilities continued to race through his head, each worse than the last. The thought of standing here arguing with a belligerent half-drunk while Sam could be in serious danger was maddening.

Devan turned back, his lip curling.

"Mister. Butt out of this."

"Not until you leave her alone."

"I _said_ –"

"And _I_ said, leave her alone. She obviously isn't interested. And take your hand off her arm, you're hurting her."

Kendra's arm was dropped as Devan swung round fully to face Dean. The bartender's eyes flicked between the two men. Unconsciously she rubbed the area where a bruise was probably already developing.

They were already in closer proximity than Dean liked, but Devan leant nearer. Dean was unpleasantly aware that the other man had been drinking as second-hand fumes wafted over him, and he pulled back a little, an involuntary expression of distaste crossing his face. The edge of the bar pressed hard against his back.

"What's the matter? Scared? Not so bold now, huh?"

If he hadn't been so irritated and worried, Dean would have laughed.

"I'm petrified," he said dryly. "If you'll excuse me –"

For an overweight semi-drunk, Devan could move fast. Dean found himself gripped by the lapels, the now-flushed face of his opponent inches from his.

"You think you can just waltz in here and tell me what to do? You think you can interfere between me and my girlfriend? You trying to get it on with her?" He waved the napkin pugnaciously. "Well, let me tell you this, _Dean_. You have no idea who you're messing with. My father owns this town. You tangle with me and you will seriously regret it."

Dean lifted his arms and in one fluid move broke Devan's hold.

"Well, I guess that really showed me, huh? Don't worry, big boy. I'm not interested in "getting it on" with your girlfriend, and you and daddy can keep your town. But believe me, if I did want to "tangle with you", you'd be the one who'd regret it."

Devan stared at him for a moment, processing this, and half-turned as if to leave. Then, without warning, he swung back. Dean, whose reflexes were even better than Sam's, guessed his intent and jerked his head back. It was that that saved him from what would have been a serious head injury. As it was, the glass bottle in Devan's hand caught him hard across the side of the face.

"Don't you get smart with me," the taller man hissed. He raised the bottle again, but before he could bring it down Kendra was there between them, her hand gripping Devan's upraised arm.

"No, Devan, please – not here! Just, please, stop it!"

For a moment there was nothing that Dean wanted more than to smash his fist into that arrogant mouth. He knew that he could take Devan on, and beat him, and the idea of tamely backing down and giving the other man the satisfaction of thinking him cowed went completely against everything in him.

But he throttled back the impulse. His priority right now was Sam. He just didn't have the time to get involved in a brawl.

Devan was still eyeing him malevolently, but his arm had dropped. Kendra stood in front of him, blocking his access to Dean and looking up at him pleadingly. Dean's jaw clenched. He was holding himself back with difficulty, his will in revolt at the idea of a woman interfering in a fight on his behalf.

_Sam. Sam needs me. I can't afford the time. Can't afford the time._

Then Devan's gaze shifted. He put one arm around the bartender and pulled her hard against him, kissing her roughly. Dean saw her stiffen slightly but she didn't pull away, passively allowing the embrace until at last Devan raised his head. He sneered across at the shorter man.

"You're lucky she was here to protect you. Next time you won't get away with it."

_Next time I'll beat your ass to a pulp. _

Dean swallowed back the thought, and watched without moving as Devan sauntered back to his table. He sensed the relaxation in the woman in front of him. Kendra turned, and for an instant he saw the unguarded emotion in her eyes. Frustration. Anger. Even hatred.

"You'd probably better go." Her voice was low. She didn't sound angry with him, just resigned, and Dean nodded.

"I'm sorry, I hope he won't take it out on you."

She shrugged.

"There really is nothing between us but he won't accept that. And what he said is pretty much true. His father is filthy rich. Devan's always had everything his own way and everything he's ever wanted has landed in his lap. You probably saw that Porsche outside? That was a consolation present for being _kicked out_ of law school. His father does own half the town, and so nobody would dare cross him. He's the scourge of every female here under the age of thirty, but if ever any of the men tries to do something about it he ends up losing his job and his house, courtesy of Devan Milford senior. And Devan usually beats the guy up in an alley somewhere. He almost killed someone last year when the guy tried to stop him messing with his sister."

She sighed, shook her head. She gave Dean a tight-lipped smile.

"You need to go and find your brother." Then the smile slipped a little, becoming almost shy. "And... uh... thanks for standing up for me."

For that brief moment he saw the pretty girl she had once been.

"Yeah, that's... you're welcome. Take care." He ducked his head, half-smiled, and then walked out of the bar.

**********************************************************

He'd driven this road, not even an hour before. That time, too, his eyes had scanned the road, hoping desperately for a sight of the familiar floppy dark hair and long limbs of his brother. That time, though, there had been a part of him that was still optimistic. There had still been the possibility that Sam was at the bar, that he was sitting in the diner. An hour ago, there was still the chance that he was alright and that Dean's fears were for nothing.

Now that optimism was gone. There were no more possibilities left in which Sam was fine. There was simply no explanation of how he could have been gone for more than six hours, his cell phone off, no trace of him anywhere and no-one who appeared to have seen him.

"Sam..." Dean's voice broke the stillness, a whisper that was almost a prayer to a God he didn't believe in.

Ahead of him the road was dark and empty, glistening with the snow. He put his foot down harder on the accelerator as the Impala climbed a small hill. Part of him wanted to get back to the motel. Perhaps... maybe Sam would be there. Maybe he would be sitting at the table, working on his laptop, drumming his fingers on the hard surface as he waited for Dean to return. Dean knew it was a vain hope, but he entertained it for one blind wishful moment.

He crested the hill, moving too fast. He was unable to be sedate when his thoughts were a turbulence of nightmarish scenarios.

An hour earlier he'd driven this road, too fast. But an hour earlier the snow had been a mere dusting on the ground.

He knew a split second before it happened that the Impala was going to slide. He felt the tyres lose their grip, shrieking as they skidded across the road. He didn't dare brake. He clung to the steering wheel, his shoulders stiff, staring as the scenery whirled before the windscreen.

_I can't have an accident... I need to find Sam..._

The thought screamed through his head. He wrestled with the controls, knowing that he could roll the car but determined to stop this helpless slide, and felt the car slow before it finally came to a jarring halt, slung at right angles across the road, the front wheels dipping below the level of the back.

For one paralysed moment he didn't move.

_I'm okay._

_Not hurt._

_The car's okay._

_I slid on some ice or something but I'm okay and the car is okay._

_Okay._

_Sam...!_

The last thought was enough to bring him back to life.

He pushed open the door and climbed out, wincing as the icy air struck his bare hands and face, and ran a quick eye over the car.

He'd been amazingly lucky.

The Impala had stopped half on the road and half on the verge. The front wheels were poised on the edge of what appeared to be a ditch, angling the body slightly downwards, but there seemed to be no danger of the whole car going in. Dean walked to the front of the car to inspect the situation.

The headlights cast a chilly wash of illumination over the ditch, lighting the dead branches and grasses and creating odd contrasts. Snow drifted in little heaps. Dean almost slid into it as he bent down to look at the wheels.

_Everything looks different at night. That looks just like a... like a..._

_**Body**_.

The icy shock that hit him had nothing to do with the weather.

Then he was down in the bottom of the ditch, on his knees in the muddy snow, his hands rough and his movements ungraceful with terror as he pulled at the motionless sodden figure that lay huddled there, half-covered with frozen whiteness. Sam flopped heavily onto his back, half on Dean's lap.

He was gray-white, his lips blue. His eyes were shut, the dark eyelashes stark half-circles against his cheeks. Wet, snow-frosted hair drooped across his face.

He didn't respond when Dean called his name.

He looked dead.

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**_Not much Sam in this chapter - MUCH more in the next, though! _**

**_Please review - reviews are the best!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to all you lovely people who reviewed - I'm still in the process of replying but I REALLY appreciate your kind comments! They totally make my day!**

**_Disclaimer_: Not mine, blah blah blah.**

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"Sam. Sam." Dean's hand fumbled for his brother's wrist, pushing back the wet sleeve and wincing at the icy chill of the exposed skin. Sam's hand dangled limply in his grip as he felt desperately for the throb of a pulse.

There was nothing.

His other arm pulled Sam against him, turning his face towards Dean's chest. He dropped Sam's arm and probed at his jawline, panicky shaking fingers seeking any sign of life.

_He's okay. He has to be okay. He can't be... He mustn't be... _

"Come on... come on..." His hand slid, shifted, pressed against frozen flesh. Snow lightly dusted Sam's face and neck. Not melting.

_How cold can a person get and still be okay? Still be alive – survive?_

"Don't do this to me, Sammy... come on, man..." His voice quivered in the stillness.

It was the faintest beat, more a shiver than anything else. A tiny vibration, that he wouldn't even have noticed under normal circumstances. He stiffened, pushed his whole hand flat against Sam's neck in an effort to enhance the almost undetectable sensation.

He hadn't imagined it. It was weak, and frighteningly slow, but it was there, a pulse, a throb which showed that Sam was still with him. He had no idea how bad it was, how long Sam had been lying there in the ditch, or why, but his heart was beating, still sluggishly pumping, and that was something Dean could work with. He was still alive. The relief was a physical sensation flooding through him, and for a brief second he just knelt there, holding Sam hard against him.

The relief was short-lived, though. Sam was unconscious. He had no idea whether that was the cold, or something else. There must be some explanation for his being here, in a ditch, and each possibility which came to Dean's mind was worse than the last. Sam could be seriously damaged. He might have been hit by a car, and have severe traumatic injuries that Dean couldn't see. Dean sucked in a sharp breath as he realised that he shouldn't have moved his brother. What if he had broken ribs, which pierced a lung? What if he'd injured his spine, or broken his neck?

"Sammy..." He stared down at the ashen face in helpless fear.

Sam's eyes moved.

"_Sam?_" Dean bent closer. There was the slightest quiver under the closed eyelids, a faint flutter of the thick wet eyelashes, but Sam didn't open his eyes. His body against Dean's was still heavy and completely motionless.

"Sam? Sammy! Can you hear me?"

This time it was unmistakeable. Dean saw the shift, the movement under the purple-shadowed eyelids. Then, unbelievably, Sam's eyes half-opened, slits cracking open before they fell shut again.

"Sammy! Sam! Open your eyes! Look at me!"

Sam didn't respond.

"_Open your eyes, Sam, dammit!_" Dean yelled.

Glassy blue-green eyes peered uncomprehendingly at him from under heavy lids as Sam instinctively obeyed. The unfocused gaze rested on his face. Dean could see that Sam was still almost completely unaware of what was happening. He didn't move or show any sign of recognition, and his eyes began to slide shut again.

"Oh no, you don't. Stay awake. Open those eyes, Sam! You're not sleeping now, you hear me? Look at me!" Dean injected every ounce of anger that he could dredge up into his voice.

_I sound like Dad. _

Sam's eyes opened again, and this time something flickered in them.

"D-d-d.." His voice was thick, almost inaudible, muttered through blue uncooperative lips.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here. Look at me, Sammy. You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open. You're gonna be okay but you can't go to sleep."

"D-d-de?" Slightly stronger this time. Sam's gaze shifted lazily, trying to focus on his face. "S-s-slee..."

"No! Listen to me, Sam, you _have_ to stay awake!" Dean was shouting, his voice furious, the anger managing to cover the desperate fear he knew was naked in his eyes. "Where are you hurt? What happened?"

Sam blinked slowly. His gaze was blurred, not fully awake, but trusting.

"F-f-fell..."

"You fell? Are you hurt?"

"S-st... s-s-stuck... f-f-f-f..."

"F?"

Dean felt the languid shift of muscles against his arm. Sam made a visible effort.

"F-f-fo...f-f-f-foot..."

"Your foot is hurt? Your foot is _stuck_!" Dean's glance flashed down the length of his brother's body, taking in the sodden jeans, and noticed for the first time the odd way in which Sam was lying, one leg drawn up and the other outstretched. The headlamps of the Impala illuminated the scene, but the spotlight ended where Sam's ankle disappeared into a messy tangle of branches and grass. Dean thought he could see the gleam of something metallic.

He leaned forward, trying to feel for what he couldn't see, but Sam was too tall.

"Sammy, I'm going to get a flashlight. If you dare go to sleep or even shut your eyes, I'll... I'll...well, just don't, okay?"

"Mmmm...." Sam blinked dully, obviously not fully aware of what was happening, but obediently keeping his eyes open as Dean laid him back down. Dean bent down so that his face was inches from his brother's.

"You hear me, Sam? You stay awake, okay? Keep those eyes open. I'll be back in a moment." He hated to leave him, even for a second. He knew Sam was hovering on the verge of slipping back into unconsciousness, and he was under no illusions that he'd be able to wake him as easily if he did go under again. But he had no choice: he had to see what it was that held his brother captive. Sam needed to get out of this ditch, out of his wet freezing clothes and into warmth, and right now Dean was the only chance he had.

Not for the first time Dean was glad for the rigid discipline of their father, who had drilled into them the necessity for keeping all their hunting equipment in good working order and easy to hand. He knew exactly where the powerful flashlight was in the trunk and he was back with Sam within minutes.

One glance at his brother was enough to renew the pulsating fear that their earlier interaction had quelled. Sam's eyes were still open, but they were glazed, staring vaguely at nothing. They didn't react when Dean came into his line of sight again.

"Sam! Sam, look at me!" He laid his hands flat on either side of his brother's face, trying to ignore the chill that struck up from the icy flesh. "_Sammy!_" He lifted one hand and brought it back down in a slap that was a sharp crack in the frozen air. Self-hatred and relief warred within him as Sam's eyes flickered. The sound of his faint whimper of protest was both a punishment and a reward.

"Sorry, kiddo, but you have to stay awake. I'm gonna check out your foot and get you out of here but until then you can't sleep. Talk to me, okay? Tell me what happened."

"D-d-de..." Sam was trying. Awareness flickered in and out of his gaze. "D-de..." It wasn't quite the polished conversation Dean would have liked, but it was something. Dean's hand moved against his brother's face. This time it was a touch of comfort.

"Yeah, there you go. Keep on talking, Sammy." He shuffled sideways on his knees, shivering as the muddy snow soaked his jeans where they came into contact, and flashed the torch at the tangled mass of branches where Sam's foot was obscured. One hand clutched the light while the other pushed at the undergrowth, trying to clear away the mess so as to get a clearer view.

His comment when at last he saw his brother's foot was brief but fervent.

What the hell was a bear trap doing in this random ditch?

The metal contraption, rusted from exposure, was clamped unrelentingly on Sam's foot, the dull teeth sunk deep into his boot. Dean swallowed, nightmare images flashing through his head. Massive blood loss... amputation... tetanus... If those teeth had gone into Sam's foot, he was in serious trouble.

"Wh...wha..." His words had obviously got through to Sam. Dean saw the faint stirrings in the long body as Sam's fuddled mind tried to grasp what was happening. "D-d-d..."

"Okay... it's okay, Sammy. I'm just gonna... uh... I'm just gonna get a crowbar."

"C-c-cr...?"

"Yeah. Your foot's caught." Dean couldn't bring himself to say the word "trap". Sam probably wouldn't understand anyway. "I'll only be a minute."

"S-slee..." There was an unmistakeably plea in Sam's voice as the tug of unconsciousness grew ever stronger.

"NO! No, Sammy, stay awake! Just a little longer, okay?" Dean leapt with more speed than grace to the trunk of the Impala, where his hand fell without hesitation on the heavy iron crowbar.

The trap may have been rusty, but it had been built to withstand the frantic thrashings of a captive bear and it was not giving up its prisoner without a struggle. The shriek of iron on iron as the crowbar fought with it was more than a little uncomfortable on the ear. The only positive aspect was that the sound seemed to disturb Sam, who screwed up his face a little and uttered a garbled moan of protest.

Even a bear trap, though, was not proof against the furious desperation of Dean's onslaught, and eventually, with a reluctant scream, the jaws parted. Dean tugged at Sam's ankle, cringing at the resistance which met his efforts, and managed to pull the boot away. The metal jaws slammed together again with a sound that was almost rage at the loss of their captive.

Dean wanted to investigate the damage to Sam's foot but he knew that his highest priority right now was to get his brother out of the cold. Sam's eyelids were drooping heavily and his face was, if possible, even paler than it had been when Dean found him.

_Need to move him. Get him warm. What if... I don't know if he's hurt. I don't know what happened. What if I make things worse by moving him? But I can't leave him lying here!_

"Sam? Sammy? What happened? You need to tell me where you're hurt."

"Uhhh..." The thick lashes fluttered, but Sam was almost at the end of his meagre strength.

"Sammy! Talk to me! I need to know if you're hurt so I can move you." Dean bent over his brother, their faces almost touching. He could feel the sluggish movement of air as Sam's breath stirred against his cheek.

Something in the younger Winchester responded to the urgency in his brother's voice.

"N-n-not... n-n-not h-h-h-hurt..." His voice was vague, drowsy, but honest.

Dean closed his eyes, momentarily relaxing in the relief of those mumbled words. Then he focused on the task of getting Sam to the car.

"Someone's going easier on the burgers from now on," he grumbled, his arms around Sam's chest as he dragged his brother into an upright position. Sam didn't answer. He was frighteningly lax, arms and legs dangling floppily. His eyes were barely open now. Fighting back the fear that continued to loom over him, Dean hauled him to the edge of the ditch so that he was lying awkwardly on his back, half in and half out. It looked a particularly uncomfortable position. The fact that Sam made no sound of protest only increased Dean's concern.

He knew a moment's indecision as he looked at the precarious position of the Impala. It might be safer to reverse it away from the edge of the ditch first...and then he looked down at the limply sprawled figure of his brother and knew that Sam's need for warmth was of paramount importance.

Sam was completely unresponsive and in sudden panic Dean pressed his fingers against his cold neck. It was a horrible moment before he felt Sam's pulse, faint but persevering, and with added haste he slid his arms under Sam's and lugged him towards the car. Slack limbs collided with the metal doorframe as he manoeuvred his brother onto the front seat.

"You leave a water mark on the leather and you're washing the car every Saturday for the next year," he mumbled, even as he stripped off Sam's sodden jacket and hoodie. He tossed the useless garments to the floor and, shrugging out of his heavy coat, wrapped it around his brother. Then he pushed back the strands of chestnut hair which clung damply to Sam's face and let his hand rest against his forehead.

"Sam? Sammy? Can you hear me? You need to wake up, bro."

Sam stirred feebly, and muttered something inaudible.

"Yeah, that's good. Let me see those eyes, Sammy. You can't sleep yet. You need to stay awake until I get you to the hospital, and we get you warmed up."

"Uh uh.... nnno... ho'p't'l..."

Dean had interpreted 'groggy-Sam-speak' before.

"Sorry, bro, no can do. You need the ER."

An expression slid across Sam's face that would have been stubborn refusal had he been more awake.

"D-d-don'... w-w-wan... hos't'l..."

"Sam –"

"N-n-no D-d-de..." Heavy lids lifted, and Sam gazed at him. Even suffering from hypothermia he managed the pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Dean had never been proof against them before.

He wasn't going to start now.

He sighed heavily.

"Okay! Fine. We'll go to the motel then." He fought with the voice inside which told him that he should ignore his brother and head straight for the nearest hospital. It might be better to get professional medical treatment. But Sam hated hospitals, and Dean didn't blame him. And Dean knew about hypothermia. He knew how to treat it. It wasn't the first time one of them had been out in the cold too long and it probably wouldn't be the last.

"Fine," he repeated, the reassurance as much for himself as for Sam. His hand lingered just a second longer against his brother's face, as if to impart some of his own warmth to the chilled flesh, and he saw the relief in Sam's eyes before they started to slide shut again.

Now that they were in a more sheltered environment he could hear how slow and shallow Sam's breathing was. Sam was out of the ditch, in the car, but he still had a long way to go before he would be okay. He needed to get out of his wet clothes – those he was still wearing – and into a warm bed, in a heated room. Dean shut the passenger door and hurried around to the driver's side.

************************************************

He was floating. Drifting. A humming vibration rocked through him.

_Ditch..._

The word hovered in his mind for a brief moment, unattached to anything, meaningless, and then was gone.

A vague memory, a feeling, of cold. Of wet. Fear...

It wasn't cold now.

It wasn't anything.

Just the humming.

Something broke through it, a voice. Familiar.

_Dean_.

Sounds... _words_.

_Sammy_...

_Sammy_...

_Sam_...

The vibration, blurring through. That, too, was familiar.

He didn't know what it was, though.

_Open your eyes, Sam..._

_Wake up, Sammy...._

_Come on... come on..._

_Look at me..._

The vibration had stopped and there was a pale blur in front of his eyes.

_Green_...

Dean.

"D-d-de..."

_Sleepy... just want to sleep... lie here... comfortable..._

_Ditch_...

"C'mon... c'mon, Sammy..."

_Must go... Dean. Dean needs me... must..._

_So tired... wanna sleep..._

Movement.

Hands, lifting, turning. Falling. Something firm. Supporting.

Words again.

_Sammy..._

_Sam..._

_No... Just wanna sleep..._

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Dean let his burden slide off his shoulder and onto the bed. Sam slumped bonelessly on his back, long arms and legs dangling off the edge, his face turned slightly away. He'd come round briefly in the car, responded to Dean's voice, but his eyes were shut now. Dean wasn't sure if he was awake or not. He seemed to be drifting somewhere in between.

Dean crouched at the foot of the bed and his hands went to his brother's boot. He was steeling himself for what he would see when he removed it. That trap had been designed to cripple a bear. Those teeth... he blinked as his mind readily supplied images. Images of what those metal jaws could do to a man's foot. Of what they could have done to Sam's foot.

There was no time for mental self-torture, though, not with Sam lying there needing his help. He worked the sodden laces loose and carefully slid the boot off, the damp sock peeling away with it.

There was no sudden rush of blood. He sat back, staring, the warmth of relief washing over him as he scrutinised the undamaged skin. No lacerations. No gouges. He could see marks which would undoubtedly become bruises, indentations where the trap had pressed. But bruises they could deal with. Bruises weren't tetanus, or the loss of a limb. He patted Sam's foot, and was pulled from his momentary complacency by the unnatural chill that met his hand.

If he didn't get his brother warmed up, he could very well lose the foot anyway, to frostbite.

Dean had not been Sam's big brother for twenty-three years without having undressed him on multiple occasions. But he had not done it for several years. Not since Sam had grown so _tall_. And never when he was as limp as this. It was more difficult than he could have dreamed, stripping off the wet, clinging clothes while rag-doll limbs flopped helplessly. Perhaps the worst part was the total lack of resistance. Sam should have been complaining, protesting against the invasion of his privacy. Which was ridiculous, of course, considering how many times Dean had changed his diaper, but that was Sam.

Now he just lay there, marble-skinned and motionless, only the feeble rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was still alive.

Dean pulled the top blanket off his own bed and spread it over his brother before going into the adjacent bathroom. He was beginning to regret the impulse which had seen him give in to Sam. He should have taken him to hospital, to an ER with experienced medical personnel. He knew how to deal with hypothermia, he knew the treatment and had implemented it on both himself and Sam, but he had to acknowledge that neither of them had ever looked quite as bad as Sam did now. It was too late, though, to change his mind. He would just have to hope that what he'd done previously would work again.

Leaving the tub to fill with lukewarm water he returned to the bedroom. Sam hadn't moved. Dean's fingers went automatically to his neck, seeking the reassuring thump of the carotid pulse. There was an alarming pause before he found it.

The bathwater was tepid to Dean's touch when he tested it, but against Sam's overchilled body it must have felt searingly hot. He moaned weakly as Dean lowered him into the bath, his eyes half-opening.

"Sorry, Sammy... I gotta get you warm. It's okay. You're gonna be fine."

Sam's head drooped sideways as Dean momentarily released him, and he began to slide down into the water. Dean caught him before he went under completely.

"Whoa! Whoa there... don't drown yourself." He slid one arm around his brother's shoulders, ignoring the water soaking the sleeve of his sweater, and held him up. Sam's head fell onto his shoulder. His wet hair tickled Dean's neck. He didn't say anything, or respond when Dean spoke to him.

The motel room was warm, courtesy of the central heating that Dean had boosted as high as it would go. When he eventually hauled Sam out of the water, it was virtually the same temperature as the air around them. Dean manipulated him into sweats and then onto the bed, tucking the bedclothes around him and adding those from the other bed. He wasn't likely to sleep much tonight. And if he did, he'd be crawling in with Sam, sharing body heat.

At the thought, his eyes narrowed.

_If_. He didn't have a choice there. That was standard practice.

He discarded his damp clothes and pulled on dry jeans and a sweater. Then he slid under the thick pile of blankets and wrapped his arm around the iceblock that was Sammy.

"Great. I'm spending the night with the Abominable Snowman," he said aloud. He tried to pretend he didn't miss the eye-roll that comment would normally have garnered from his lanky little brother.

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Dean struggled up through heavy blanketing waves of sleep, trying to work out what it was that had woken him. The room was in semi-darkness, a faint light from outside stealing through the curtains, but it wasn't the light of morning. It was far earlier than he usually woke.

He was cold. Cold was with him, under the bedclothes, pressing against him.

_Sam_.

Dean stretched across and switched on the bedside light, flooding the room with a soft orange glow, and then leant over his brother.

"Sammy?"

One glance was enough. He scrambled from under the covers, knelt on the bed, his hand going to Sam's neck even while his suddenly alarmed gaze took in the unnatural blue that shaded his nose and mouth, the shallow, erratic breathing. His free hand pushed Sam's eyelid up: the pupil was dilated and almost unresponsive.

"No. No. Sammy." Under his fingers Sam's pulse was a faint thread, virtually impalpable.

Dean kept his hand pressed against that feeble flicker as he reached for his phone, as he dialled 911, as he spoke to the operator. He didn't break the contact as he disconnected the call, barely aware of what he'd said to her. She'd been calm. Dean somehow knew that he had been calm too, although he had no idea how. Icy fear was slithering through his veins, clutching at his heart and constricting his breathing.

His eyes were fixed on Sam just as his fingers were glued to his pulse, watching, monitoring. Guarding.

So he knew exactly when it was that Sam stopped breathing.

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**Please review... you know you want to...**


	4. Chapter 4

Thank goodness for National Braai Day yesterday which gave me a chance to finish this chapter - RL can be mad sometimes! Anyway, hope you enjoy it...

**Disclaimer**: Would I be writing Fanfiction if they belonged to me?

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Dean straightened, rolled his shoulders and tilted his neck until it clicked audibly. The blue-upholstered chair, while no doubt better than the floor, was not an ideal place in which to sleep. Or, more accurately, to try to sleep. He was exhausted, deep, draining fatigue that was as much emotional as physical, but rest drifted tantalisingly just out of reach.

Not that he would have slept well, anyway. The events of the last few hours were still too mercilessly fresh in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam. Sam lying in that ditch, blue-white and unmoving... Sam looking at him with glazed eyes, trying so hard to stay awake... Sam in the car, wrapped in Dean's coat... unconscious on the bed... unconscious in the bath... huddled under the blankets... Sam's pulse, weakening under Dean's fingers and eventually fading out altogether.

Dean's eyes jerked open as he almost violently repulsed that memory.

He could still feel the cracked cold of Sam's mouth as he performed CPR, the movements automatic while his mind raced with panicky disjointed thoughts. The ambulance siren, loud outside the motel room– _I'll never hear one of those again without this feeling, terrified and helpless... _The lights flashing, garish and stark, as the paramedics banged on the door and eventually broke it in because Dean didn't dare leave Sam.

And Sam himself, motionless on the bed, on the stretcher, his face an unnatural gray. Unresponsive. Not breathing. No _heartbeat_.

_You're not dead you can't be dead please don't be dead..._

He had driven that road again, where Sam had fallen and Dean had gone on his way to find him – _he_ _was there in the ditch all that time and I drove right past him_ – and where the Impala had skidded and spun and finally shown him where Sam was trapped. He had driven behind the ambulance and looked at the lights and listened to the siren and tried to convince himself that the paramedics wouldn't be in such a hurry if there was no hope, if they thought that Sam was gone and that there was nothing that could be done.

He knew he'd never travel on that road again without remembering that fear, that dread that was slowly crushing him.

The hospital, ugly and functional. He had pulled in after the ambulance and parked the Impala haphazardly across two bays, running in behind the blue-uniformed medics who wheeled the stretcher. Other uniforms had quickly surrounded it and Sam was lost to Dean's view.

He could see enough though, of the hurry, of the frowns and the haste. The expressions on the faces and the tone in which the doctor was firing observations and commands.

"Apnoeic..."

"Cyanotic..."

"Can't get a pulse..."

"Pupillary reflexes absent..."

Then the whole surging mass had disappeared through heavy swing doors and Dean was left alone.

His shaky breath was loud in the quiet room as he ran his hand over his face, almost roughly, and looked for the hundredth time at the single bed and its silent occupant. Sam was the same dull white as the pillow on which he was lying. The untidy hair was his only colour, the chestnut strands drooping against the pillow and sprawling across Sam's forehead as limply as the boy they belonged to.

Sam's chest rose and fell. His breathing was a little shallow but it was unassisted. Dean could see the rhythmic fogging of the oxygen mask. The mask... that was a good sign. A sign that he was improving. When Dean had been allowed to see him, briefly, while he was still in the ER, he had been on a ventilator.

Dean didn't think he'd ever forget that sight: the hideous invasiveness of the tube that disappeared down his brother's throat, the machine that with every click and hiss told of Sam's inability to breathe without help. The doctor who'd shown him where to go had told him that Sam was breathing warmed air, warmed to help in raising his temperature. The IV lines which draped around him were delivering heated fluids for the same reason.

Dean swallowed, remembering the doctor's face, and his words.

Dr. Morrison had been angry. Incredulous.

"How you could even consider taking him home in such a state is beyond me. Did you not think that this might be more than you could handle? He was unconscious, barely responsive, you were struggling to find his pulse, and you just took him home?"

The part of Dean that had always led him to flout authority had wanted to argue with the doctor, to defend himself and his actions. He knew how to treat hypothermia. He'd treated it before and it had worked and both Sam and he had been fine on those occasions.

But the other part of him, the part which had protested all along and which had hoisted red flags at his capitulation to Sam's pleas, had shut his mouth and made him listen, stiff and resentful and inwardly wilting under the growing weight of culpability.

Everything was wrong. Everything he'd done, his attempts to help his brother. He'd been so confident that he knew what to do, because he'd done it before. And his confidence had been misplaced, utterly and completely. Sam was in this state directly as a result of his actions – the actions he'd thought were the right ones.

He should have called 911 as soon as he found Sam.

He should never have moved him. He shouldn't have taken him home. He should not have tried to warm him up.

If he'd called an ambulance first, Sam would have been given the correct treatment and none of this would have happened.

If he'd found Sam earlier, he would have been doing the right thing. Even the doctor had acknowledged that his treatment would have worked if Sam's condition had been less dire. But Dean couldn't comfort himself with that. Sam had been in a bad way when Dean had found him. Dean had known this was worse than he'd handled in the past, but he'd just given in when Sam protested.

"When the heart gets that cold, it is very susceptible to arrhythmias. Even bumping or jolting the patient can precipitate ventricular tachycardia or atrial or ventricular fibrillation, which is why you should not have moved him in the first place."

_Ah...what? _

"If he'd been brought in, we would have implemented active internal rewarming. Trying to warm him yourself only caused peripheral vasodilation with consequent shunting of cold acidotic blood to the core tissues. This resulted in afterdrop and his heart went into ventricular fibrillation and then asystole."

Dean's face must have communicated something unfavourable at that point. The doctor had coughed, flushed slightly, and reworded his statements.

"Uh – when you tried to warm him up all the cold blood in his extremities went back to his heart and caused it to stop beating. If he'd come in earlier we would have worked to warm the core first, and we would likely have been able to avoid all that."

Dean's hand went to the back of his neck, unconsciously trying to work out the tension which knotted his muscles. He glanced at the cardiac monitor. Again. It drew his attention repeatedly. Its monotonous beep was a comfort, a relief in the tumultuous maelstrom of his thoughts. Sam was alive. Sam's heart was beating. Down in Emergency they'd restarted it and now this machine was keeping watch and chiming out each beat in its repetitive and boring and incredibly wonderful voice.

"He should be okay."

After verbally beating Dean into the dust the doctor had offered him that. Dean had taken hold of it and gone away, and now he sat beside his unconscious little brother and hugged those words to himself and it was a comfort he felt he didn't deserve.

He was so used to doing his own thing. To following his own path, according to the rules he'd laid out for himself, based on what he'd been taught by his father. His father had never had much time for the status quo and that was how he'd trained his boys. Dean, as was his way, had absorbed it. Sam, as was his, hadn't really.

It was, of course, Sam who had insisted that they not involve a hospital here, but Dean couldn't allow himself to shift the blame that way. A hypothermic and semi-conscious younger brother should not be the one making the decisions. Dean should have ignored him and headed for the nearest emergency room.

_No, I should have called 911 as soon as I found him. Moving him could have precipitated... uh... well, it wasn't a good idea._

Dean thought back on the moment when he'd discovered the inert body of his brother in the ditch, and had to acknowledge in one brief moment of clarity that he would not have been able to sit by while Sam lay there so obviously freezing and wet. Waiting for the ambulance all nice and warm in his thick coat while Sam got bluer and colder would have been impossible.

_I'd like to see that Dr. Morrison sitting primly there watching his little brother freeze to death because he was worried about arrhythmias._

Dean's flare of anger was short-lived though, quenched by the overwhelming sense of blame.

"He should be okay."

_That's right. He _**should**_ be okay. He shouldn't be lying in hospital, unconscious. He shouldn't have had to be resuscitated or defibrillated, or have had to be on a ventilator. He should be sitting in the motel room on his laptop, complaining about me channel surfing._

Channel surfing...

Dean recalled the conversation at the motel. Sam on his laptop. Dean channel surfing. Had that really only been that afternoon?

His voice echoed in his mind.

"_Double cheese burger with onions... Just shut up and get the food."_

_Huh. I never actually did eat dinner._

_I think if I ate now I'd toss it in minutes._

Logically he couldn't blame himself for sending Sam out to get dinner. Someone had to do it, and Sam had been going out anyway.

_But I should have made sure he took the Impala. And then I shouldn't have fallen asleep and taken so long to realise that he hadn't got back. And then I shouldn't have got involved in that discussion with that bar lady and that Devan guy. And I shouldn't have moved Sammy, and I shouldn't have taken him home and tried to warm him up by myself and I shouldn't have gone to sleep when he was still unconscious..._

The guilt was almost physical nausea.

Unconsciously his hand found Sam's where it lay on the blanket. It was still colder than it should have been, although it had lost the waxen iciness of earlier. Dean's fingers curled around it.

_I almost lost you tonight. _

_I thought I was doing the right thing. I screwed up, big time._

_I'm sorry, Sammy..._

*****************************************************

It was rhythmic, not too loud, but insistent. He couldn't quite identify it. But it was familiar.

What exactly...?

A soft growl, steadily increasing in volume. Cut off short by a little snap, like a hiccup, and rounded out by a snuffle.

Some kind of animal. What were they hunting this time? He couldn't remember. Nothing they'd ever gone after had sounded quite like this. But he knew he'd heard it before.

Oddly enough, there was something comforting about it. It was a reassuring familiarity, which made him realise that it wasn't a hunt. He could have used many words to describe the things they hunted, but 'comforting' wouldn't have been high on the list.

Besides, now he came to think of it, they couldn't be on a hunt. When had they ever hunted while lying in bed?

Other sensations began to intrude on his tenuous consciousness. Pain... well, dull aches, really. Something over his mouth... nose... A flicker of panic died as he realised he could still breathe perfectly comfortably.

_This doesn't feel like a motel._

_Have I been..._

_Dean._

_**DEAN!**_

_This is a hospital I'm in bed what happened where's Dean is he hurt what happened why can't I open my eyes what happened zombie ghost wendigo werewolf vampire what the hell happened Dean...._

The renewed panic provided the impetus he needed for the herculean task of opening his eyes.

The room was dimly lit, but he could see immediately that his guess had been correct. Clean sheets and blankets... clean walls... clean _ceiling_... He wanted to reach up and take off whatever was sticking to his face, but his arms weren't as compliant as his eyelids. He squinted down and eventually came to the conclusion it was an oxygen mask.

_Dean..._

Something was heavy against his hand.

That sound again... the one that had woken him...

_Turn, head... just a little... c'mon..._

Sam's snicker, muffled by the mask, was more than half a sound of relief.

_Well, at least Dean's okay._

_Some sort of animal. Huh._

_I guess I wasn't far off..._

Dean was slumped awkwardly in the chair beside the bed, his head tilted back. His eyes were shut. From his open mouth issued the odd sounds that Sam had heard upon waking.

_No wonder it was familiar._

Sam's humour faded a little. Dean looked a mess – unshaven, his hair wild and his clothes crumpled. Sam looked down, and saw for the first time that his hand was lying in his brother's. Even in his sleep Dean's grip was firm.

_I guess... I guess something happened to me..._

He tried to think, to remember something – _anything_ – but his brain was still foggy, and his body ached.

_I'm so tired..._

Cold.

He frowned as the thought flitted across his consciousness, but as soon as it appeared it was gone. His eyelids were drooping as the brief spark of energy faded.

As they shut his hand twisted a little, and his fingers curled weakly around Dean's.

********************************************************

A heavy breath snagged, caught. The fair head jerked forward as green eyes opened blearily, not fully awake. A hand reached unsteadily back and rubbed his neck.

_What... why..._

The other hand moved, and met resistance.

With one glance, full awareness returned.

_Sammy..._

His muscles ached from spending the night huddled upright in the chair, but Dean barely noticed the pain. His attention was fully focused on the bed in front of him and the boy who lay on it.

Sam was still pale, dark smudges like bruises under his eyes, but his breathing was deep and regular. His hand in Dean's felt warmer, close to normal. From across the bed Dean could hear the reassuringly even beep of the cardiac monitor.

"Sam?" Dean wasn't sure if Sam was asleep or unconscious. His eyes were shut, and his mouth open under the oxygen mask. His head was turned slightly on the pillow so that he was facing in Dean's direction. "Sammy?"

Sam stirred a little, and his eyes shifted under closed lids. Dean's breath sucked in.

"Sammy?" he repeated, leaning forward.

"Mmmm..." Sam's response was muffled by the mask. His free hand moved, the fingers curling against the sheets.

"C'mon, Princess, I haven't got all day to sit here while you get your beauty sleep."

Thick dark lashes fluttered. Sam's brows drew down in what would have been a frown if he'd been more awake. There was a brief flash of green-blue as his eyes cracked open.

"Mnopri... anyneeb... youslee... mo..." One hand fumbled unsteadily, fisted fingers knuckling heavy eyes. Dean's mouth twitched.

"Ah... didn't quite catch that, Sammy."

Sam's hand slid to the mask, moving it away from his mouth as his eyes opened reluctantly.

"I said you need beauty sleep more than I do." His voice was hoarse, and a little slurred.

"Dude. A face this fine needs no help."

"Dude. Have you looked in a mirror?" Dimples made a brave attempt at an appearance. Sam replaced the mask and let his hand drop weakly back to the bed, his eyes sliding half-closed. He looked utterly exhausted. With sudden apprehension Dean glanced at the heart monitor, but Sam's pulse was still regular, albeit a little slower than normal.

"Dean..." The half-whisper was muted through the mask which Sam made no new attempt to remove. "Wha... what happened?"

"You don't remember?" Dean's eyes flickered, his breath catching momentarily as the events and emotions of the previous night flooded back through his mind. The fear... the panic...

_.... ditch car bath bed ambulance hospital...._

Guilt.

_Myfaultmyfaultmyfault..._

"Dean?" Sam's eyes were fixed on his face, a tinge of worry creeping into them. Dean blinked.

"You went to get food, and decided to take a rest in a ditch. You got pretty cold."

Sam's eyes narrowed in sudden comprehension.

"Oh... yeah. Yeah... I remember now... my cell phone got smashed. I couldn't call you." Recollected apprehension, the helplessness of being trapped without a means of escape, flickered through his eyes briefly and was almost immediately gone again. "I guess you found me, though?"

Dean had seen the hastily-hidden emotion in his brother's eyes, and his heart clenched a little.

"Yeah... I did." _You were wet and freezing cold, and blue, and I couldn't find a pulse – I thought you were dead.._. Dean's mind shied away from that memory.

"So... uh... what's with the hospital? It... I wasn't that bad... surely?"

_You were. You were that bad... and I thought I knew what I was doing and just took you home... and made you even worse than you already were... _Dean thrust his hand into his pocket, his fist curling. Sam was still sickly white. He looked frail, despite his bulk; the frailty of someone who had been perilously close to death. _Close_ – his heart had _stopped_. And Dean couldn't get away from the appalling fact that that had been his fault.

"I take it... I was?" Sam's voice pulled him out of his self-recriminations. It was small and uncertain. Sam's eyes looked bigger than normal against the pallor of his face, and Dean couldn't help thinking how indignant he'd be if he knew just how much like a bemused child he looked at that moment.

"Well – the thing is – when I found you I... I took you back to the motel. I guess I thought I knew what I was doing... Turns out I... didn't. So you got pretty bad, and I ended up calling an ambulance. So... yeah. Hence the hospital." Dean didn't think he'd be able to maintain the light tone if he described exactly how bad Sam had been. His casual flippancy was a very thin veneer over the surging complexity of guilt and remembered fear.

"But... but Dean... I don't get it." Sam looked puzzled. "Dad taught us how to treat hypothermia. You knew what to do that time when we went after the harpy. When we were stuck in that cave for so long. Why –"

"You were unconscious, Sam. I should never have taken you home. I should have called an ambulance as soon as I found you." Dean's tone was suddenly harsh as the facade cracked.

Sam looked at him for a moment, undisturbed by Dean's anger.

"You know how much I hate hospitals. I would have said no if you'd asked me."

Dean's head jerked up a little, and Sam eyed him shrewdly.

"I did, didn't I? I refused to go to hospital."

"I should have ignored you, Sam. You weren't exactly firing on all cylinders. I should have –"

"Dean. I didn't want to go to hospital. So you didn't take me. End of story."

"No, not the end of the friggin' story! Your heart stopped, Sam! You weren't breathing! If I'd taken you straight to hospital they would have warmed you up the right way and you would have been fine!"

Sam pulled his hand from where it was still lying in Dean's. His chin thrust forward.

"If it had been you in the ditch, and you'd said you wanted to go home, I would have listened to you. You did what I wanted. So if it's anyone's fault, it's mine. Okay?"

Dean stood up abruptly, strode across to the window, and then came to stand at the end of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest.

"No. Not okay. I shouldn't have listened to you."

"I'm not a child, Dean."

Stubborn blue-green eyes met stormy hazel ones. Dean was silent, his mouth tight. Sam leant forward a little, his fists clenched emphatically against the bedclothes.

"You did know what to do, and I guess you did it. I wanted to go back to the motel and so we went back. You weren't to know it was worse than the other times. Okay, it was, and you had to call an ambulance and whatever. But I'm fine. I'm still alive. So stop beating yourself up."

Dean pinched his eyes shut with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't come up with a logical counter-argument right then, with his brain so sluggish from lack of sleep. Sam's words were rational, and made sense. And he was right, of course. Dean would have been irritated had their positions been reversed and Sam had taken him to hospital against his wish.

_But I'm his big brother. I'm supposed to look after him._

It all came back to that in the end. As much as Sam might protest that he was no longer a child, he was still Dean's little brother. He would always be Dean's little brother. And Dean would always feel somehow responsible when something happened to him. It was Dean's job to look after him.

_And that includes ignoring what he wants when I know better._

A wry half-smile twisted his mouth as he imagined Sam's outrage if Dean were to voice that thought.

"_You did know what to do, and I guess you did it... you weren't to know it was worse than the other times." _

Sam's words echoed in his mind.

_I did. I knew what I should do, and it should have worked. _

"I'm pretty sure Dad wouldn't have involved a hospital."

Dean ran one hand through his hair. There was nothing he could say to that. John Winchester had disliked hospitals even more than Sam. He would probably have done exactly what Dean had.

Some of the heavy weight of guilt lifted at the thought.

"Anyway, if you want to blame anyone, blame the guy who knocked me into the ditch in the first place."

Dean stiffened.

"What?"

Sam had slumped back against the raised head of the bed. He looked even more exhausted than when he'd woken.

"You're not the one who got me into this mess."

"Someone _knocked_ _you_ into the ditch?"

Sam's eyes opened a little as he caught the sudden tension in Dean's voice.

"Yeah. He was driving too fast and on the wrong side of the road, and I couldn't get out of the way fast enough."

"Why didn't he help you out?"

Sam snorted a little.

"Help me? He didn't even slow down."

Dean breathed out through his nose, a slow, icy rage spreading through him.

"What sort of car was it?"

Even as he asked he knew, with a bizarre kind of fatalistic awareness, exactly what Sam's answer was going to be.

"Uh... I dunno about the model. A really fancy red sports convertible."

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Thanks to all the fantastic people who've reviewed - I love you guys! Please let me know what you think...


	5. Chapter 5

The final chapter, at long last! Thanks SO much to all the lovely people who reviewed or favourited or alerted this story! You make me so happy :-)

A huge thanks to my wonderful Dad who helped me with the fight scene...

**Disclaimer**: The usual.

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Dean lifted the cardboard cup from where it stood on Sam's cabinet and peered hopefully through the little hole in the plastic lid. The coffee produced by this hospital was actually better than average. Which made it just about drinkable. He swallowed the mouthful that still remained, wrinkling his nose at the taste of gritty dregs, and glanced again at his watch.

This day was just taking forever.

He looked out of the window, and sighed. The sun was dipping, but it would be at least another hour before dark, and there was no point in making a move before night.

Dean knew from years of experience that nasty things prefer to come out at night.

Even nasty human things.

His fist clenched unconsciously, crushing the cup, as he remembered Sam's words.

"_A really fancy red sports convertible..."_

It was a measure of just how weakened Sam was that he hadn't noticed the effect of his statement on his older brother.

Dean stood up abruptly and took several hasty steps to the other side of the small room. Then he came back, tossing the empty cup in the trash, and sat down again.

Devan Milford.

Driver of a scarlet Porsche Carrera.

The Porsche Carrera that had almost killed Dean's little brother.

An image of the other man rose up in his mind: large, aggressive, contemptuous. He'd always taken exactly what he wanted and whoever had dared to stand in his way had run up against the might of Milford senior.

Or Devan's fist. Dean recalled the beer bottle and his lip curled. It had been a long time since he'd felt such a desire to break someone's nose.

And that was before he'd discovered what Devan had done to Sam.

Dean glanced across at the bed. Sam was asleep again. He'd gone under shortly after their conversation that morning and hadn't really woken properly since then. He still looked frighteningly pale and shadowy, but the various medical personnel who'd been in to check on him had seemed pleased. The oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal cannula, which Dean took to be a good sign.

Dean's gaze lingered on his brother's face. Sam was alive, and recovering. His sickly pallor was a much better colour than the gray-blue he'd been last night when Dean had found him. But it was a far cry from Sam's usual healthy tan. Dean shivered, remembering his first sight of Sam in the ditch, huddled and limp and blue. He didn't think he'd ever get that image out of his head.

And Devan had been responsible. Driving recklessly, too fast and on the wrong side of the road, he'd forced Sam into the ditch and then just driven off, not even pausing to see if he'd caused any damage. He'd left him lying there. And Sam had come within inches of death as a result.

Dean's teeth ground together audibly.

He'd walked away from the fight last night, albeit reluctantly. Devan's taunts were maddening, but given the circumstances Dean had overlooked them.

But Milford had crossed the line when he hurt Sam.

_No-one_ messed with Dean Winchester's little brother and got away with it.

*******************************************************

He wasn't there.

Dean breathed heavily through his nose, staring morosely at the beer bottle in his hand. The bar was busy, its faintly sordid clientele all in various stages of inebriation, but the one man he had come to find was nowhere to be seen. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have objected to being there, drinking beer and perhaps investing in a game of pool, but these weren't normal circumstances.

Sam was in hospital, by no means recovered, and Dean didn't like to leave him. He knew, though, that he had to get this done before Sam was discharged. Their dubious insurance would not stand up to close scrutiny and they would have to get out of the town fairly quickly once Sam was ready to move. There would be no time then to deal with Devan.

"So, did you find your brother?" Kendra leant against the bar, a momentary hiatus in the steady stream of customers allowing her to take a break. Dean looked up.

"Uh – yeah. Yeah."

"Was he okay? Everything fine?"

Dean's eyes flickered.

"He... uh... he ran into a little trouble." _Or rather, trouble ran into him_... "He's doing okay now, though."

He could see she was curious for more information, and was relieved when someone called her attention away. He'd replayed the previous night's events too many times in his head to want to recount them to a relative stranger now.

Glancing around again, he swallowed the last of the beer. Devan hadn't come in, and Dean's self-imposed time limit was up. Sam was likely to sleep through the night, but Dean didn't want to be absent if for some reason he woke. Or had one of his nightmares. Or if some complication arose.

The possibilities marched through his mind, each worse than the last, and propelled him to his feet. He'd just have to come back tomorrow night.

As he stood up, a different sort of discomfort made itself known.

_One beer and three coffees... I gotta take a leak._

The bathroom was about what he might have expected, given the atmosphere of the rest of the place, but Dean had seen worse in his wide experience of motels. He didn't linger, wanting to get back to Sam.

He pushed back through the swing doors and stopped just inside, his head lifting as adrenalin flooded through him.

At the bar stood a familiar figure.

Devan was angled slightly towards him, a faintly predatory grin on his face. He was leaning against the bar. The small blonde beside him wore a distinctly uneasy expression although the brave remnants of a smile still clung to her lips. She was pretty, in a wholesome, innocent way, and did not appear to be out of her teens.

She looked about as comfortable in the bar as Dean would have been at the Vicar's tea party.

Devan leant nearer, and murmured something in her ear. At the same time, his arm came up and curled round her waist.

The remains of the smile disappeared and she pushed his arm away, stepping back a little. Devan followed, his smirk widening a little, and his arm returned. His hand began to wander.

Her face darkened into a frown as she pulled free. She said something to him, although through the noise of the bar Dean couldn't hear what it was, and hurried towards the swing doors through which Dean had just walked, evidently seeking refuge in the ladies room.

Dean's eyes narrowed. He took a step towards the man at the bar. Devan was looking in his direction, but from the way his gaze passed casually over Dean it was obvious he did not remember him. Then, as if coming to a decision, he headed over and went through the swing doors in obvious pursuit of his latest conquest.

Dean stood without moving, his mind racing. A part of him wanted to follow the other man. A fight to the finish in the setting of a grimy bathroom was not quite what he'd envisaged, though. The room was tiny and poorly lit. He didn't really want to attack Devan in front of the girl, either.

A faint sound, quickly stifled, set his senses quivering, and his head turned sharply in the direction in which the couple had gone. He stepped closer to the doors, glanced around, and then pushed back through them.

The gents' stood open and unlit.

The door to the ladies' was closed.

Some instinct sent him across, and tension rippled through him as he heard a scuffle from behind it.

_I really hope she's not _actually_ using the bathroom. This could be embarrassing..._

He twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

Devan had his back to the door. His superior weight pinned the girl to the wall, one hand over her mouth. She was struggling violently, but it was more than obvious that she had no hope of breaking free. One sleeve of her pink shirt was torn.

Devan went back through the swing doors considerably more quickly than he'd come.

He was heavy, but Dean's rage made an easy job of swinging him around and kicking him out of the bathroom. Momentum propelled him with a crash back into the bar to sprawl inelegantly at the feet of a decrepit elderly man.

"Hey, Superman, whassa matter? Trip over your cape?"

In the sudden silence of the room, the slurred words were audible to all. Dean pushed through the swing doors in Devan's wake to find that every eye was on him. Hands on beer bottles had frozen, some halfway to open mouths; over at the bar Kendra stood motionless, whisky pouring unheeded into the glass in front of her. The air crackled with tense anticipation.

Devan came to his feet with a lunge, growling something at the old man, and his fist swung in Dean's direction. It wasn't a calculated blow but it was powerful enough to have done some damage had it landed. Dean had been expecting it, though. He sidestepped neatly, and threw a punch of his own.

Devan staggered as his forward rush carried him into Dean's rock-hard fist. His eyes widened a little, surprised pain flaring with the blood that spilled from his split lip. Then fury reddened his face and he came at Dean again.

Dean ducked into the blow this time. Devan's arm went over his shoulder as Dean's fist buried itself in the man's stomach. Devan's breath left him in a pained grunt and he doubled over, clutching his middle and wheezing. Dean eyed him alertly, his eyes a little narrowed, predicting what his opponent would do next. The rage still bubbled near the surface, but he was harnessing it, completely in control, not allowing his anger and hatred of this man to distract him and cloud his judgment. He was the consummate hunter stalking his prey.

Devan straightened slowly, still sucking air in audibly. His hands clenched and unclenched, twitching with the intensity of his emotion.

"I'm going to smash your face in!" he snarled, and threw himself at Dean.

The right hook was better timed than his previous shots, and only Dean's excellent reflexes saved him from a broken jaw. His head jerked sideways as the fist grazed the side of his face. Unlike Devan, though, he didn't let his anger affect his tactics. Recovering, he feinted left. Devan dodged it, and put himself neatly in the path of Dean's right fist. It caught him in the stomach, in precisely the same area as before. As his body jack-knifed, Dean smashed his left into Devan's face.

Devan wobbled, and slid to his knees, his arms wrapped around his abdomen. Blood trickled from the newly opened gash across his cheekbone. His mouth hung open, the air hissing across his damaged lip.

Dean tensed, preparatory to another swing, but Devan cringed.

"No... please... enough..." His gasping plea was almost a whine.

Dean's lip curled. He grasped hold of the man's shirt front with both hands and yanked him up, leaning forward so their faces were inches apart.

"You almost killed my kid brother. You knocked him into a ditch and drove off and left him, and he nearly died. _You think this is enough?_"

For the first time a flicker of something akin to fear passed over Devan's face. Dean could see his thoughts. This was not some random guy protecting a damsel in distress. This was personal. Dean was out for justice. He was out for revenge.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he bleated, and cowered back instinctively at the fury which sparked from Dean's eyes.

"Oh, I think you do. Last evening, driving too fast and on the wrong side? On the road out of town?"

Devan's involuntary flinch gave him away.

"I... I didn't mean..."

"Just shut the hell up." Dean released him with a hard shove, sending the man into an ungraceful heap on the floor.

"Is... is that true?"

Dean turned at the sound of the voice beside him. Kendra stood nearby, one arm comfortingly around the shoulders of Devan's erstwhile date. Her face was a little pale.

"Is that true?" she repeated. "That Devan... your brother..."

"Yeah." Dean's voice was curt.

"Is he – your brother – is he alright?"

Dean's eyes flickered as the events of the last twenty-four hours rushed through his memory. He forced them back with an almost physical effort.

"Yeah. He will be –"

The abrupt widening of Kendra's eyes alerted him before her scream of warning.

Dean whirled round. Light flared off glass as the broken bottle flashed towards him. Even as he jerked his head back his hands closed around the arm which wielded the deadly weapon, and in a blur of motion he slammed it down across his upraised knee.

Devan's shriek and the shatter of the bottle as he dropped it were simultaneous.

Dean's eyes were flat and deadly. His left hand fisted in the man's shirt front, preventing the imminent descent to the boarded floor.

"That's how you want it? Fine." His voice was a merciless snarl.

Dimly he heard what sounded like shouts, but his vision seemed to have narrowed so that all he could see was the man in front of him. Then he was smashing his fist into that hated face, feeling the dull crunch as flesh bruised and bone and cartilage gave way, hearing the yells of pain which only fuelled his rage. His grip on Devan's shirt loosened, allowing the man to slump to his knees, but he only let up when his arm was aching and his hand bloody and throbbing.

Devan was huddled on the floor, whimpering. One hand clutched his face. The arrogance and aggression seemed to have leaked out of him with the blood that trickled through his spread fingers.

Dean crouched down, leaning over him.

"You made a big mistake when you messed with my brother, you son of a bitch. _No one_ screws with Sammy and gets away with it."

One hand went to the back of Devan's collar and he dragged him unceremoniously to the door, ignoring the gasps and groans of protest. Then his other hand gripped Devan's belt, and heaved.

For a man of his size Devan flew surprisingly well. His body described a graceful arc in the night air before coming abruptly to rest on the gleaming hood of the Porsche. There was a hollow, shuddering thud as flesh collided with metal, the sports car responding in a manner which suggested that its owner was not the only one who'd be bearing the scars of tonight's encounter.

"Oh, and Milford? Leave the ladies alone from now on." Dean's comment dropped into the silence as Devan slithered off the car to land in a heap on the muddy ground.

Completely focused on Devan, Dean had almost forgotten the presence of everyone else, and the sudden burst of sound behind him was unexpected. Voices, loud, excited, swirled around him as the patrons of the bar spilled from the door. Several of them thumped him on the back, boisterous in their enthusiasm.

He barely responded. His rage and lust for revenge were still too acute to allow him to feel anything else, and while he could see that the general mood was jubilant he couldn't participate. He stood unmoving, his face rigid, and watched Devan, who was stirring feebly.

"Well. That was... that was quite something." Kendra's voice was dispassionate. Dean glanced at her and saw in her face the confusion of emotions that her voice didn't show. "I daresay I don't want to know how you learned to fight like that."

"I daresay you don't."

"It doesn't seem quite appropriate to say thanks, but... yeah. Devan's had that coming to him for a long time." She looked around. "Everyone would have liked to do it and no-one dared - but I think he's just not going to be a threat anymore. You totally humiliated him, apart from anything else." She smiled, and Dean's mouth quirked in response as the violent emotion within him began slowly to subside.

"You have time for a drink? On the house, of course."

Dean hesitated. It was tempting. But an image rose to his mind, of a stark room and a pale-faced boy asleep in a hospital bed, and somehow beer and congenial company seemed to lose a little of their allure. He smiled apologetically.

"I think, if you don't mind, that I'm going to get back to my brother. He's been alone all evening."

There was complete understanding in the smile Kendra gave him.

"Yeah. But listen, once your brother's up and about, you both come down here and take me up on the offer, okay?"

**************************************************************

Sam was asleep when Dean returned. He was lying on his side, cheek pillowed on one hand, looking absurdly young and innocent.

Dean stood beside the bed and looked down at him. Sam was going to be alright. A faint but unmistakeable wash of colour had appeared in his face and he seemed to have improved even in the hours Dean had been absent. Dean's face softened into an expression that it seldom wore, an expression that only his little brother had ever been able to evoke, and for a moment his bruised right hand rested lightly on the dark head.

"Mmm... De...?" Sam stirred, his voice a drowsy mumble.

"Yeah, it's me. Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"'kay." Sam's breathing deepened again. Dean huffed a sigh, suddenly exhausted.

"Sleep well, bro." His voice was very soft.

**************************************************************

"So, tell us all exactly how you felt!"

_It can't be... surely...._

Sam's eyes opened.

Dean was tilted back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He was staring with absorption at the television, completely engrossed. Sam took one look, and sniggered.

_It is!_

Dean leapt, almost falling out of the chair as he snatched up the remote and fumbled with the buttons.

"Uh... I was –"

"Dude! _Oprah?_"

"Shut up, Sammy." Dean managed eventually to switch off the television. Sam noted, with pleasure, the scarlet hue that was rapidly suffusing his face. Dean saw the impish grin.

"_I'm_ not the one who watched Barney for four hours one evening." He smirked in satisfaction as Sam's amusement gave way to horror. "You thought I didn't know about that?"

Sam tilted his head and his mouth puckered as he tried to formulate an explanation. Then Dean reached across for his coffee and Sam saw his hand.

"Dean! What the hell?"

"What?" Dean followed his gaze, and his eyes flickered a little. "Oh, that. It's nothing, really."

"Yeah, right!"

"I... uh... it was... it was a hunt."

"A hunt?" Sam was eyeing him suspiciously. "What kind of hunt?"

"A malevolent spirit. I had to banish it." Dean's gaze met Sam's, eyes wide and mouth curling up a little. Sincerity was apparent in every line of his face.

Sam knew that look.

It was the one Dean wore when he was fabricating his most outrageous stories.

"Dean –"

"Awake at last! And how are we feeling this morning?"

Sam's protest died as his nurse surged into the room. He threw a speaking look at his brother and then smiled brightly at the woman.

"I'm okay. I'm fine. Can I leave today?"

"Well, I don't know about that, honey. We'll have to see what the doctor says." She gripped Sam's arm and took his pulse and blood pressure with the ease of practice. "BP's a little low. Feeling dizzy at all?"

"No, I'm good."

"I'll check it again after breakfast." She glanced down at her watch and shook her head. "Which is late, of course. But what can we expect? After the uproar in the ER, the whole hospital is going a little crazy."

"Uproar in the ER?"

"Oh, my word. Early this morning... I tell you, I've never seen anything like it, and I've been here for – well, I'm not going to tell you how long, haha, but for a while, and there's never been such a scene..."

Dean's eyes met Sam's, and his lips twitched.

"I mean, we all knew what he was like, of course, but I guess it must have been a shock. You'd think his own father – but then _he_ always was blind where Devan was concerned, which is probably why –"

"Devan?" Dean cut through the flood of words. "Devan Milford?"

She blinked.

"Yes, Devan Milford – oh, of course, you wouldn't have a clue what I'm babbling on about! Devan came into the ER early this morning in a very bad state, broken arm, broken nose, fractured mandible and what have you. Apparently he'd been beaten up but no-one seemed to be able to give any information as to what happened. If you ask me," her voice lowered confidentially, "it was angry menfolk of one of the young ladies that he's always getting so... friendly... with. I've always said that boy will get what's coming to him one of these days."

"So... he made a scene?" Dean prompted.

"No, not right then. His father was with him, talking about finding out who did it and pressing charges etcetera, and Devan wasn't saying much and everyone was just keeping their heads down. Mr. Milford is not someone to get on the wrong side of, so we just stayed quiet and hoped he'd leave. Anyway, they'd been there about an hour when who should arrive but a police officer. He had this other man with him, a very well-dressed middle-aged gentleman, who's apparently a lawyer, a pretty high-up one, too."

She paused to catch her breath. Dean's eyes had narrowed at the mention of the police, and he avoided Sam's gaze.

"Milford's lawyer?"

"No! That's the thing – that's when the... er... poop hit the fan! It turns out Devan took this man's daughter out last night and tried to... assault her. Luckily he was interrupted, which is where the beating part came in, I'm guessing, but now this lawyer is pressing a charge of attempted rape." Excitement warred with genuine concern in her face. "Mr Milford just seemed to... I don't know... collapse. Emotionally, I mean. I was almost sorry for him. He kept looking at the lawyer, and then at Devan, as if he couldn't believe it, and saying "rape?" over and over. I think he just never knew quite how badly his son was behaving, so he always took his side, and now he'd realised. And Devan won't get away with it. There're too many people in this town who'll be happy to support the case against him. He's done it before, you know. And Mr Milford said he wasn't paying for a defence lawyer. Devan will have to sell that lovely red Porsche of his and get a lawyer himself."

She glanced at her watch, and uttered a little cry.

"Here I am chatting and time's passing! Breakfast should be coming soon, honey, and then we'll see what the doctor has to say about discharging you."

She whirled out of the room, a small hurricane, leaving a very pregnant silence behind her.

Sam broke it.

"A hunt, huh?"

Dean met his gaze levelly.

"We're not gonna argue about this."

Sam said nothing for a moment. He looked down.

"So... Devan drives a red Porsche." His voice was thoughtful.

Dean watched him without speaking.

Then Sam's mouth curled, in a grin that was somehow shy.

"Thanks, man."

Something flashed across Dean's face, an expression Sam might have recognised if he'd been awake when Dean had come in the previous night. It was gone in an instant.

"Yeah, dude. You owe me, big time." He looked at his watch. "When's your breakfast coming? I'm starving."

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